Save Him
by BroodyBlondes4ever
Summary: If you forgive a person enough, you belong to them, and they to you...whether either person likes it or not – squatter’s rights to the heart.
1. Undeserving

It was nearing midnight when the repeated sound of the metal fork hitting the side of the crystal champagne flute slowly silenced the crowd that had gathered within the gallery. They all turned their attention to the brunette standing on a chair in the center of the room, her smile brightening as she stepped back down to the floor and locked eyes with the woman of the hour. "Five years ago, this girl I know, she got tired of watching her best friend be famous, and she decided that she wanted everybody to fuss over her instead…selfish right." She winked at the blonde across the room before finally breaking eye contract and looking around the entire crowd. "So being the great friend that I am, I spent weeks helping her look for the perfect location for her to hang up some of her freaking drawings, and because I love her so much, I didn't complain…"

"Not until after the first week" Peyton stuck her tongue out at the brunette, they're playful banter always welcomed.

"Anyway…we finally found a place that I thought was completely disgusting, it had paint peeling off the walls, and one of the walls had this gaping hole in it, the carpet had stains all over, oh, and it smelled like mold, but missy over there was in love with it for some strange reason. It was her perfect place and I thought she was perfectly insane. But I guess that's why she's the artist and I'm the clothing designer, because over the next three weeks her and Luke turned this place into something amazing…I mean, you wanna see a power couple at work, just take a look at this gallery, or at Ryan…either is the perfect example of what those two can do together. But that's got nothing to do with what I was planning to say." Everyone chuckled lightly while Brooke flipped her hair over her shoulder. "So, Peyton hung up her freaky drawings, and what do you know, people liked them, and then people wanted to buy them, and then she was on her way to being like me, except in a completely different industry, but either way she was becoming famous. Then prince charming knocked her up and she started drawing more happy things, like really gorgeous landscapes and flowers, kids playing…you know, the kind of things that wouldn't terrify her child…and then even more people knew her name. Then she had Ryan, she drew some more pictures and five years later here we are, standing in one of the state's most popular art galleries, with one of the most talented and all around awesome people I've ever met, other than me of course."

"Do you have a point Mrs. Adams…" Peyton arched one of her brows as she leaned comfortably against her husband's body, her head resting on his shoulder, and his arms wrapped securely around her, smiles firmly in place on both of their faces.

"My point is that I am so proud of you Peyton. You deserve all of this and more; you worked really hard to get to this point and I really couldn't be happier to be able to stand here in front of all these people and congratulate you on the fifth anniversary of your opening. I love you P., and I wish you all the success in the world with this gallery and in everything else you do. So here's to five years and to five more." She raised her glass in her best friend's direction and everyone else in the crowd followed suit as the blonde mouthed a silent thank you in Brooke's direction.

He pulls her just a little closer to him as he presses his lips against her temple. Her eyes instinctively flutter closed as she wraps her hand tighter around his, a wordless exchange of their love for each other. Her thumb runs slowly over the wedding band on his finger and she smiles as she recalls their promise of forever. She turns in his arms and barley has enough time to glance up before his lips are pressed against hers. Her hand lies against his chest and her body molds to his and she has to remind herself that they're not in the privacy of their bedroom; there's too much risk in deepening the kiss, so she reluctantly pulls away, a smile ghosting across her lips at the feel of his racing heart under her fingertips.

"I think Ryan's worn himself out" he glances at his son whose no longer playing cards with Nathan, but instead resting in his uncle's lap. It has become second nature for both of them to switch between the roles of a love struck couple to that of parents, each transition always welcomed with open arms.

"We probably should get him home…" her head falls to his shoulder as she speaks, a signal that would be mixed to anyone else, but that's perfectly clear to him. Over a decade together has taught him everything there is to know about her, each detail making her more perfect in his eyes. Her head stays glued to his shoulder as he nudges her gently into place at his side, it's exactly where she belongs, where she's comfortable, and where she'll always remain whether she's physically there or not.

Their steps are in sync as they make their way across the room to get Ryan. He disentangles himself from her and his eyes follow her as she maneuvers her way through a few people, stopping when she finally finds Brooke and Haley.

"Hey girly" Haley loops her arm around the blonde's waist. "You guys leaving already…"

"Yeah…Ryan's half asleep over there." Her eyes instinctively glance toward her husband and son before she focuses her attention back on the two girls next to her.

"Besides, I'm sure they have a much more exciting way of celebrating tonight…" Brooke smirks and shrinks away as Peyton's hand swats her arm playfully, a slight flush washing over the latter's cheeks.

"You guys are still doing okay…" The hesitation in Haley's words is evident. She didn't want to put a damper on the happy night, but she also couldn't help worrying about them. Lucas had been one of the hundred plus workers that had been unexpectedly laid off five months ago, and for some reason he couldn't find an editor for his latest book. He and his previous editor Lindsay had had a bad falling out over something he wouldn't talk to her about. His new book was good, she had read it as soon as he was finished, but getting it published was proving to be extremely difficult.

"We're doing fine Hales. Don't get me wrong, it's hard sometimes, all of this just kind of came out of left field, but we're dealing with it." Not even she knew why Lucas and Lindsay had stopped working together, it was the only secret he kept from her, but she didn't push him on the matter. He would tell her when he was ready…he always did.

"You guys will get through this." Brooke's words were laced with conviction, simply because if Lucas and Peyton couldn't make it, then what chance did the rest of them stand. The two lifelong friends exchange smiles before the blonde catches her husband's eye from where he stands with their sleeping son in his arms and bids her goodbyes to her friends. They meet at the door, throwing smiles and waves over their shoulders before slipping out into the night.

He drives his family through the nearly deserted streets of Tree Hill, and as always he marvels at how little their hometown has changed over the years. His heart flutters lightly when her fingers intertwine with his on the knob of the gear shift, and he's surrounded by a calm that only she can bring to him as they pull into their driveway. It's nothing short of routine for him to hand his wife the car keys before moving to unstrap Ryan from his booster seat while she walks ahead to unlock the front door. She turns down the bed while Lucas changes him into pajamas, the two parents moving quietly and comfortably around each other as if they've done this a hundred times, simply because they have. They each kiss him goodnight before creeping out of his room, closing the door behind them.

She opens the fridge and grabs a water bottle for herself while he reaches his hand past her to grab a beer, ignoring the look she flashes in his direction. "Just one" he whispers before pressing his lips to hers. Her body immediately warms under his touch, but he pulls away a moment later and the cold air from the refrigerator circles her bare legs once again. She closes the door and turns to let her back hit the stainless steel, her hands clasped behind her as she finds his gaze. He knows he should have grabbed for a water like his wife had, but as he brings the chilled bottle to his lips, just the smell is enough trap him and remind of an intoxicated high that only his wife can compete with; the liquid that's racing down his throat never fails to warm him and make his head swim, make him forget in a way that only his wife can outdo. What he doesn't know is what it is that keeps pulling him to indulge in the bottle instead of her. Shame hits him hard, weighs down on him, ready and waiting for the right moment to cripple him, just as it does almost every other night, and he breaks eye contact with his wife because he knows that he brings her down with him every time. And instead of breaking free from him the way he wishes she would, she always wraps herself around him when the sun rises; each morning she finds his eyes, and her own relay a devotion that he doesn't deserve anymore.

He moves past her and reaches for the mail they had dropped on the counter earlier in their rush to make it to the party on time. He skims through the junk mail and the bills, but his fingers stop turning past the envelops when his eyes catch one that's addressed to him from a publishing company, the last one he sent his manuscript in to. He sets the rest of the pile down, the small white envelope gripped tightly in his hands. She watches him from her position against the fridge and she knows what's in his hands…it's not a letter from the 19th publishing company he's written to, not to her, to her it's the difference between just one and just one more, and that's what decides what side of the fault line they'll find themselves on an hour or two from now.

He uses his index finger to slowly break the seal on the back. His gut is telling him what the letter says, the fake apology that's so perfectly worded on the folded piece of paper inside. He's been black listed by his former editor and her well established father. He calls it a falling out, but in truth Lindsay was a spoiled brat whose father still fed into her belief that she was entitled to everything she wanted…even her married client.

The two of them had been in her office late one night, going over a few of the chapters from his latest unfinished novel. It had been nearing 2 A.M. and he was beyond the point of exhaustion, and in turn had been reading the same sentence over and over again for the last ten minutes. He didn't think anything of it when Lindsay went to stand behind him and started to massage his tense shoulders. He let his head fall to the side before dropping his chin toward his chest. His lids became increasingly heavy and slowly his eyes shut; it wasn't until her hands slipped off his shoulders and down onto his chest that he became alert again. Before he could react, her lips had taken up residence where her fingers had been, fluttering lightly across his shoulder and then up along his neck. He spun around in his chair with all intentions of breaking all contact, but instead she took it as an invitation to straddle his lap, her skirt sliding dangerously high along her thighs as her lips danced across his neck again.

"Lindsay…" he gripped her hips and began to push her gently away from him, the last thing he wanted to do was physically hurt her. She pressed her lips to his before he could voice another protest, her skirt climbing higher as she ground her hips into his. His shock got the best of him as she rocked back and forth against him, and she took the opportunity to slide her hands down along his shirt before letting one hand drop between them so that her fingers could wrap themselves around him through the fabric of his pants. He shoved her off of him then, the force sending her to the ground and her head hitting the wall. "What the hell is wrong with you…"

"We could be great together Luke…" Her hand moved to back of her head as she got to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. He stood as well, his heart raging in his chest, his head swimming with thoughts of his wife and son curled up in bed.

"No Lindsay…in case it slipped your mind, I'm already married."

"You could end it, or you could stay with her for all I care, you wife doesn't have to know what happens in New York." She spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I...you…" he shook his head, trying to shake the image of Peyton's face out of his mind, hoping the guilt would disappear with it. "Goodbye Lindsay…" he haphazardly stuffed his papers into his briefcase before hoisting the leather strap over his shoulder and making his way to the door.

"Don't do this Lucas…" Her hand latches on his wrist in one last attempt to get her way, but he pulls himself out of her grasp.

"I'm going home to my wife, and in the morning you can tell your father that you lost him a client." His doesn't give her a second glance as he flings the office door open.

"Good luck finding a new editor" it's the last thing he hears her say as he walks down the hall toward the elevator. He hadn't given her departing statement much thought then, but as the rejection letters continued to pile up, he understood the true meaning behind her words.

H doesn't pull the letter out, instead he sits the envelope back on the counter and downs the rest of his beer. He's never told his wife about that night in Lindsay's office, he can't bear the thought of telling her that he cheated on her, that she had trusted him to travel to another state and spend time alone in another woman's office until ungodly hours of the morning, and he had betrayed her. Sure he pulled away, but he had hesitated, he had allowed it to progress further than it should have been able to.

He approaches his wife slowly, her body still blocking the fridge. She doesn't move even though she knows that's what he's waiting for. "You promised it would be one…" she reminds him quietly, her eyes glazing over as her gaze shifts down to the ground.

"I didn't promise anything…" she looks back up and meets his gaze, no silent apology for his harsh tone, no indication that he plans to turn around and walk away. "Can you move please…" she shakes her head gently, her curls swaying around her face as her hands grip that handle a bit tighter. "Peyton…" there's a warning tone in his voice, but she stands her ground, hoping that maybe tonight he'll give up and just go to sleep, it's been a good day, she wants it to stay that way. She releases her grip on the handle and moves her hands to his chest, her body arching into his as she slides her hands further up, her fingers creeping along until they're at the back of his neck toying with his hairline. She catches his eye briefly before her lips hit his throat, and she can feel him swallow a deep groan as she skims past his pulse point.

He looks down at her head, her curls swaying gently as she moves along his neck. She knows it's always been a weak spot for him, and he knows that she's counting on that fact, but all he can feel is the growing knot in his stomach. "Move…" he can hear the bitterness in his own voice, and he doesn't wait to see if she'll listen to him, he simply grips her shoulder and pulls her away from the door, shoving her body back against the counter behind him, away from him. He loves her, there's no denying that fact, but at the moment the mere thought of making love to his wife makes him shudder and develop an overwhelming feeling of disgust. It has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the worthless, undeserving husband he's turned into. He's told her countless times that fitting himself inside her is like coming home, but somehow he blinked and found himself standing outside, and knowing that he's the one that walked out and slammed the door behind him makes waltzing back in feel wrong and unnerving. Their love makes his stomach turn in a way that's anything but pleasant. _"You deserve better than me." _He had whispered the words into her curls one night after her breathing had evened out in the way that let him now she was sleeping, that's why he tensed when her voice broke through the silence. _"I deserve the best of you."_ There was a time when he would have ignored anyone who believed you could love a person too much, but now he knows it's true, he's experienced it first hand, and knows without a doubt that too much of something is never good.

She doesn't flinch at the slight pain in her back, after all, it doesn't begin to compare to the pain she feels as she watches her husband grab the remainder of the six-pack off the bottom shelf. He mumbles a sorry as he passes her, an apology for what he's done and what he hasn't yet. "Why do you stay…" he questions as he nurses his second bottle from the love seat in the living room.

"Because I love you…" her whispered words wrap themselves around the two of them, and she wishes that it was enough, some nights it is, but she knows it won't make a difference tonight.

"I know…" his words are just as quiet as hers and equally heavy. "Don't leave me…"

"I won't…" she leans back against the wall in the hallway, and watches as he drowns his pain in the bottom of a bottle, only to open up another and burry himself deeper. She never would have thought that you could love someone too much, but she understands it now; he loves her too much to let her go, and she loves him too much to leave – neither can imagine a life without the other, no matter how it's being lived. She drops her head and allows the tears to finally fall.


	2. Squatter's Rights

_If you forgive people enough, you belong to them, and they to you, whether either person likes it or not – squatter's rights of the heart._

She'd read the quote a few months ago, it was scrawled across the bottom of a piece of work at a gallery she'd visited. She'd written it down on a scrap of paper and tossed it into her bag, forgetting about until Lucas found it a week later. _"Since when do you read James Hilton…I've never known you to be big on fantasy works, definitely didn't think you'd delve into English fantasy." With her back pressed to his chest, she couldn't see his face, but she could sense his smile through his voice. "I just liked the quote…" _she had nudge his chin with her head before going back to washing dishes, the conversation turning towards their son_. _The quote had been forgotten after that moment, but the words rushed back to her now, their truth nearly choking her. No matter what he did, she would always welcome him back; her arms would always be open and waiting. And there's no sense in her questioning whether or not he knows; it's why in the darkness of their room when the rest of the town is sleeping - when he finally stops running from her touch and buries himself inside her, when he empties into her, her name laced with love and apologies as it spills from his lips and echoes down her throat, his intricately weaved with love and forgiveness as she passes it from her lips to his so that it can reverberate through his entire body – they come home together.

Peyton watches him drain the bottle dry, and when he realizes that there's nothing left in the cardboard holder, her hurls the tinted glass across the room, snickering when the glass shatters and his wife flinches. He uses the arms of the chair to get to his feet and is surprisingly steady as he stalks towards the woman he vowed forever to. "Didn't you go shopping yesterday?" She nods her bowed head, and he grips her chin to lift it up, his own neck craning until he's staring directly into her eyes. "You're a bright girl, so I assume you looked in fridge before you left, so why didn't you buy another pack"

"I never do" she can feel the pressure of his fingers growing, his short nails digging into the skin of her jaw. He lets go, but only to wraps his hands around her shoulders, pinning them back flat against the wall.

"Then what good are you?" The words are sneered through gritted teeth, and she finds herself on the floor moments later, a dull ache in the wrist that attempted to break her fall. "You're so fucking worthless…I have to do everything for myself." He snatches the keys off the counter, but before he can make it out of the living room, Peyton's hand is wrapped around his upper arm.

"You shouldn't be driving…" her grip on his bicep is firm, and she can feel his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he turns his body to face her. He pulls away from her, his hands immediately taking hold of her wrists. It doesn't take long for her fingers to start tingling from the loss of circulation, her wrists are burning from the immense pressure on them and she knows there'll be a bruise forming before she even gets to sleep, but she doesn't cry out, doesn't try to pull away from him, she simply keeps her eyes locked on her husband's face. She remembers the first time he caused her physical pain, intentionally. They had been in the middle of a heated argument after he tried to find comfort in a bottle of whisky, and she had slapped him after experiencing firsthand how cruel and bitter he could be when drunk. Her immediate reaction had been to cup her hands over her mouth, terrified by her own actions. He hadn't missed a beat though, and before she could form an apology, he struck her hard enough to make her stumble backwards.

She's never been able to remember what happened after that, but somehow she wound up with Ryan asleep in her arms as she walked down the deserted Tree Hill streets. Her arms had been burning and she struggled to shift her son's weight so that they could both be more comfortable. She was tired, cold and hungry, and the throbbing in her check was only getting worse. It didn't take long for the frustration to get the best of her, and she let out a choked sob as the first set of tears slid down her cheeks since leaving her house. She cried for a cycle she couldn't seem to escape, for the little girl whose father lost himself after her mother died. He blamed her for his wife's death, after all, her mother had run the light in a rush to pick her up from school, it wasn't hard to understand why her father loved her one moment and hated her the next. It didn't take very much time for her to learn the effects of alcohol, a liquid that not only consumed her father, but left her battered and broken as well. Pizzas with odd toppings were for the daytime, sprained wrists and ankles, cuts from the broken edge of a tequila bottle, scars and concussions because she hadn't had time to clean up the mess from those earlier meals were reserved for the night. Never in a million years would she have thought that Lucas Scott, her self-proclaimed knight in shining armor, would be added to the list of men who had hurt her.

She hadn't heard the approaching footsteps behind her, but she did feel the weight of his hand on her shoulder, and her muscles relaxed, her arms trembling as he shifted their son into his own arms. _"It's late, let's go home."_ His free arm had snaked its way around her hips, pulling her body into place next to his, and her head fell instinctively to his shoulder. She didn't fight him as he led her back to the place she had run from, partially because he'd had her son securely in his arms.

There's another reason though, one that has played a significant part in why she continually chooses to climb into bed next to him at night. _"Luke…my hands are full of paint."_ He had ventured out of his study with intentions of getting a bottle of water from the fridge, but that was ten minutes ago, and he had yet to make it downstairs. His wife had caught his attention as he was passing one of the guest bedrooms that she had recently turned into her studio. Her curls were piled on top of her head, specks of paint on her cheeks, and in a pair of jeans and one of his old work shirts with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she had captivated him. After standing in the doorway unnoticed for awhile, he made his way over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist as his lips danced along her shoulder and neck. _"I know. It means you don't get to touch me."_ He was smirking when she turned around, his hands slipping underneath the shirt and his fingers gliding across her skin leaving goose bumps in their wake. He kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, every inch of her face except her lips, and when she tried to press her lips to his, he nudged her head away and traveled down her neck and along her shoulder. _"Luke…"_ her arms stretched up and she locked her wrists behind his head, a moan building in her throat. _"Hmm…"_ Both of his hands had been used to unbutton and unzip her jeans, and he slipped inside the denim with ease so that he could grip her bare hips and pull her closer to him. _"You can't leave me."_ He had whispered the words as they laid on the floor, her head on his chest, his arms encircling her, and their legs entangled, and she remembers the overwhelming belief that the mere thought of the two of them not being together was absurd. Despite all that's happened, she can't stomach the thought of not being able to lie in his arms regardless of location and time, of not being able to make love to him until her entire body aches, until neither of them can move and they succumb to a blissful sleep, their bodies still joined in the most intimate of ways. She can't bear throwing away 11 years of marriage after only 11 weeks.

Her fingertips are burning now, and their bright red color has slowly faded into a deep purple. He forces her back against the counter, the cold marble edge pressing into her spine, and she can't stop her face from crumpling or the pained sound that slips from the back of her throat. "What makes you think you can tell me what to do?" _Because you're my wife. _The words break through his rage, but they recede back into the depths of his subconscious before he has the chance to acknowledge them. He lets go of her wrists and takes a step back, watching as she stands up straight before he turns to walk away, car keys still in his hand.

"Lucas…please…" her voice cracks despite her effort to keep her tone even. She takes an unsteady step towards him, intent on trying to stop him again, but he catches her off guard as he turns around, and before she can process what's happening, she can feel the sharp stinging on her cheek, and the force of his hand has her on the floor.

"Shut up." He glares from his position above her, his eyes showing anything but the soft look she's used to. She brushes her cheek with her fingers and cringes at the faint trace of blood from the cut caused by one of the keys dangling from the ring that's still hooked around her husband's finger. He crouches down next to her, and her shaking hands latch tightly onto the one he's got wrapped around her neck.

"Lu…" her voice is silenced when he tightens his grip, and he pulls her up with him as he gets to his feet. He forces her back until she's against the wall, her tears dripping from her chin onto his forearm as he lifts her up so that they are eye to eye, her feet arched and toes barley scarping the carpet. She hasn't instigate this, she rarely does; she knows she's on the receiving end of all this simply because she's around. But that knowledge isn't enough to make her leave. No one would understand, she barley does herself, but in the quiet cover of the night, before closing her tear filled eyes, she prays, not for herself, but for him. She prays for him to find himself again, she prays that they'll make it through because she loves him, and she can't erase the image of the man he used to be, despite the scars above and below her skin that serve as a reminder of the man he is. This isn't how Peyton Sawyer imagined her life, nor is it how Peyton Scott imagined her marriage, but neither version of herself can imagine a life without Lucas Scott.

"I wish you would just crawl into a hole and stay there. I don't wanna be around you right now. If you had just purchased another pack like a good little wife, I wouldn't have to go out and get my own. So what I need you to do right now…is fuck off." He lets go and watches as she falls to her knees, her hand reaching up to rest gently on her neck. He stares at her momentarily, waiting for the protest he knows is coming, but she doesn't speak, her eyes don't even glance up to meet his. A wave of fear washes over him at the indication of her submission, fear of the possibility that she's finally given up on him. He's completely submerged by the feeling, he can taste it on his tongue, and as he swallows thickly the fear feels like an anchor pulling him down further, faster than his mind can comprehend. What feels like an eternity is really only seconds, and when he resurfaces his emotions have transformed and he's consumed by anger, and despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, he scuffs and shakes his head before walking out the door.


End file.
